


The Fall's Gonna Kill You

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2016 Presidential Election, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, Biting, Blackmail, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"What do you want out of life?"</i> An AU in which Nate runs for president.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall's Gonna Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://jones6.livejournal.com/profile)[**jones6**](http://jones6.livejournal.com/) for betaing and to [](http://opheliahyde.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://opheliahyde.livejournal.com/)**opheliahyde** for betaing and handholding.

**Cambridge, Massachusetts  
**  
Winter 2007

"Interrogative, sir. What do you want?" Brad asks. He and Nate are lying in bed, skin tacky with sweat, Brad's arm slung over Nate's chest, fingers splayed over Nate's heart.

The question surprises Nate a little. Brad doesn't like talking about his feelings or the future or "any of that goddamn hippie liberal kumbayah bullshit they taught you in the Ivy League." He just got back from his tour a few weeks ago and is in that weird adjustment phase, still getting used to being around civilians and cars instead of artillery fire and camels. "You mean right now? A hot shower, maybe some pizza, _definitely_ a round two." He palms Brad's dick through the sheet. "If you think you're up for it, of course."

Brad hefts himself up on one side so Nate's sure to see the shit-eating grin Brad shoots him for the comment, but doesn't say no to the possibility of more sex. As if he would. "As concerned as I am about your immediate desires, no. I meant in the long run. What do you want out of life?"

That catches Nate off-guard again, and for a moment, fear gets the best of him and he thinks that Brad's working up to dumping him, that the question was so he could use the "we want different things" excuse. But, he reminds himself, _if_ Brad were to break up with him, that's not how it would go, because Brad's not a pussy. And they just had mind-blowing sex, so Nate thinks it's safe to assume Brad's not leaving. "In life," he repeats. "I'm...not really sure. Joining the Marines was supposed to help me figure that out, but I learned that I didn't want to be a part of something like that anymore. Some people have asked about a sequel to the book, but I don't know if I could write another one." He shifts slightly. "I know how much you hate politicians, Brad—"

"Fuckin' right I do," he interrupts. "Lying bastards. Almost as bad as Schwetje."

"As I was saying," Nate continues, only pretending to be annoyed with Brad's interruption. "Despite your objections to it, politics interests me. It's not like I have a masters in government or anything."

"Hardy fucking har," Brad deadpans. "It's so nice that the Corps taught you humility. Really a valuable skill."

"Shut up; you love it," Nate says. "But really, I think I could finally do some good, like you're always saying I should be, and it can't be harder than the Corps."

"Whatever you say," Brad agrees, padding into the bathroom. "The hot water'll be gone if you wait too long."

*

**Charlotte, North Carolina  
Spring 2016**

"Ray," Nate says tiredly, rubbing his temples in hopes that his headache will somehow magically go away, or at least become less painful. "Ray, if you say 'get some' to the people at CNN one more time, I'll make sure Reporter never brings his girlfriend to HQ again." CNN's been ambivalent about Nate, and he wants to make sure they're on his side by the time the RNC rolls around.

"Chillax, homes," Ray says, absentmindedly typing something on his laptop. "I got your six. When was the last time—" he stops talking and stops typing when, as if on cue, Reporter and his girlfriend (fiancée? Nate can't keep track at this point, what with the ring she only wears sometimes) walk in. Fucking great. Ray's always less productive when Leah's around. She's pretty, sure, but not especially so (in Nate's admittedly biased opinion); Nate understands that Ray's got needs, but when she's there, Ray keeps glancing over to check her out. Wright doesn't notice, but she always does, and she's not pleased. The first time it happened, Nate pulled her aside and made her promise not to kill Ray. They need him; for all his manic energy and inappropriate comments, he really is one of the best publicists in the business. And he's giving Nate a discount ( _"Bravo Two, man. Gotta stick together."_ ) so Nate's not paying Ray as much as he deserves. If they win, he's getting a raise. Or at least a vacation.

"Ray," Nate says, crossing the room so he can look right at him. Sometimes that helps. "Listen to me, okay? Milton's getting almost twice the press coverage we are, and we need to show them we're not just going to roll over and take it. Can you take care of that for me?" Jacob Milton's the other Republican candidate, a hardass motherfucker who'd have fit right in in the Corps. He's got a habit of fucking things up, and isn't terribly well-liked, but he does know his shit, and he's got senority, some pull in the Senate.

"I'm on it," Ray confirms, and he does snap into business mode—punching a few buttons on his BlackBerry and talking a mile a minute—so Nate can relax a little, though he's always thinking about something.

He knows the primaries could go either way at this point, and that he's got a long career ahead of him if he plays his cards right, but if it turns out that St. Louis is the last stop in the race, he'll be crushed, as un-manly as that sounds. To be out of the game before he's even really started playing would be a huge blow.

Right now, though, all Nate wants is to go back to his apartment, take a long, hot shower, drink a beer, and jack off while thinking about Brad, who's out recruiting this week. It's Thursday, and late enough that Nate doesn't have to feel guilty about leaving a little early. He does, however, check Ray's call list, Reporter's newest speech, and Walt's field progress before he goes.

Nate thinks he's imagining it when he opens the door and sees Brad at the dining room table, Chinese food cartons in front of him.

"Got Captain America to cover for me," Brad explains. "Decided I needed a little R&R."

"I fear for those new recruits, then," Nate says, and Brad snorts.

"Marines make do," he says. "They need to learn that sooner or later." He pushes one of the white cartons across the table to Nate. "You should eat," he suggests.

"Did you?" Nate asks.

"On the plane. _Sir_."

He grins at Brad around a mouthful of sesame noodles. "You and I both know Delta hasn't served a full meal in years, Brad. Eat. If I'm going to fuck you into the mattress, which is the plan for tonight, and possibly tomorrow, you're going to need your stamina."

"Roger that."

*

In bed, Brad's all eager mouth and roaming hands that skim over Nate's body, never staying in one place for long. They don't get to do this as much as either of them likes, so when they do, they make it count. Nate goes slowly, removing one piece of their clothing at a time, watching Brad get hard against his hand.

Brad sucks a hickey along Nate's collarbone, low enough that it can be hidden by his shirt—that's the rule. Nate feels the blood rushing to the surface of his skin, hot under Brad's mouth; on Monday, he'll find the bruise under his clothes, enjoying the sweet-sore ache when he presses on it.

"Kinky little fucker, aren't you?" Brad asks. Nate just slips a hand down to touch himself, fingertips behind his balls, and it feels almost as good as Brad doing it would.

"You love it," Nate replies, lets Brad lick into his mouth, bite at his lips. "Wanna fuck you," he says; as much as he loves rolling around in bed with Brad, making out, that's not all he wants to do.

"Yeah," Brad agrees, rolling onto his stomach. "Yeah."

One spit-slick finger up Brad's ass, and he clenches around it, impulse kicking in before he relaxes enough for Nate to work in a second, lubed up this time. Nate doesn't rush things, takes his sweet time working Brad open, finding the spot that makes him dig his fingers into the sheet and push back against Nate, silently asking for more. He kisses the curve of Brad's neck, shoulder; traces his tongue wetly down Brad's spine.

"I love it when you go all Army pussy on me," Brad grunts, squirming around Nate's fingers. "Just stick it in already."

Nate rolls his eyes. "Your dirty talk turns me on," he says, sarcasm coloring the edges of his voice. The lube is on the bedside table, finger-dented, slowly shrinking; he reaches for it again, slicking himself up before pushing into Brad in one fluid motion. He slips his hand across Brad's stomach and curls it around Brad's dick, but pulls away when Brad pushes up into Nate's fist. "Don't," he orders, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust of his hips. "Let me take care of you." He doesn't, though, not in the immediate sense, stroking down over Brad's hip, instead. His fingers stop in the groove there, the flat plane of Brad's skin hot against his hand.

"Fuck," Brad says, fingers brushing against Nate's as he strokes himself.

"Don't fucking touch yourself," he says, speaking directly into Brad's ear, loving the slight shiver it elicits.

"All due respect, sir, I decided to take action in reaching the goal while you're sitting there with your thumbs up your asshole. Figuratively speaking, of course." Brad's hand stills when he pushes back against Nate, though, so Nate considers his order a success.

"You want something, you ask me." For emphasis, Nate bites down on the skin between Brad's neck and shoulder.

"If you don't touch me _now_ , I'll gut you with my Ka-Bar and give your entrails to Trombley."

"Mm, that's new," Nate hums in agreement, just skirting Brad's dick as he sets a rhythm. "I'd like to see you try," he says, thrusting hard, burying himself in tight heat. Brad will feel it tomorrow when they go running, the pleasant burn that's not from exercise, and pull Nate into some alley for a kiss. Maybe he'll even suck Nate off there, knees pressed against the dirty ground, but the possibility of that isn't as good as what he's got right now, which is Brad in his bed, his choked-off little grunts the Recon Marine's equivalent to begging for it.

"Don't think you'd be laughing if... _fuck_ , Nate, either get me off, or let me do it myself."

Nate could refuse, could make Brad wait until he's sweat-sheened and aching, muscles tense and ready to give out, but it's been a little too long since the last time for Nate to be patient enough for that.

He curls his hand around Brad's cock, thumbing over the wet head on the downstroke and twisting a little on the upstroke, just the way Brad likes, and quickens his pace, clutching Brad's hips for leverage. Brad's tight, squeezing around Nate, nails leaving dents in the sheets as he clutches them; Nate's orgasm sparks and warmth floods his body, vision going blurry at the edges. His whole world's reduced to this pinprick of light, so much so that it's a surprise when Brad comes, spurting hot and messy over Nate's hand, his own stomach, the (clean) sheets, chanting Nate's name like it's the only thing he can say.

Nate falters, thrusting one last time before pulling out. Brad flops down beside him, the lazy, post-sex grin that Nate loves, but never sees enough of, spreading across his face. "Fuck, that was good," Nate says, but Brad's already got his eyes closed, breaths soft and even.

*

The next morning sticks to the schedule Nate thought it would—a run through the neighborhood, a (barely) post-workout blowjob from Brad, a long shower. Nate suggests they get breakfast before he heads to work, but Brad shakes his head. "Thought I'd go in with you and see exactly what it is that you do all day," he says.

"I didn't know it was national 'Take Your Boyfriend to Work' day," Nate jokes, almost positive that Brad won't react (at least, not negatively) to the comment. ("I don't like labels," Brad had said when they first started sleeping together, and Nate hadn't cared as long as Brad put his tongue back where it was before.) "You know Ray works with me, right?"

"Do I look like a fucking idiot?" Brad asks, daring Nate to say yes. "I've never seen you in action here, and Ray knows I'll cut his balls off if he rants at me."

"Just remember, you asked for it," Nate says.

At the office, Brad's greeted with firm handshakes and warm smiles, and Ray's crazy hyena laugh. "I knew you couldn't stay away from me too long, homes," he says.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ray," Brad says, though Nate knows he doesn't get half as frustrated with Ray as he pretends to.

"You don't have to hide your feelings around me, Brad. Let me go make a call, and then you can tell me how much you missed me."

Brad snorts, but doesn't say anything, just starts to scan the room so discreetly Nate's pretty sure no one notices him doing it, looking for anyone who seems suspicious of them. He takes second looks at a few of the new faces—sizing up the guys, giving Libby, one of the aides, a quick once-over. She's exactly Brad's type (and really fucking young), but Nate's more worried about Brad propositioning her for a threesome than he is about Brad flat-out fucking her. Stepping in closer to Brad, he whispers, "Don't get any ideas." Just in case.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Brad says. "I—" he stops when Ray walks back over to them. "I'll tell you later."

It takes a good half-hour for people to settle down and start working, but the noise level doesn't go down much even then. Nate does his best to tune everything out and focus. That works for awhile, but when he looks up in the middle of rehearsing his speech, or going over strategies with Espera, Brad's looking at him, eyes dark, and Nate has to take a breath and start over.

The day's not a complete waste, though. Patterson comes in just as lunch is winding down, nodding at Brad. "Good to see you," he says, and then to Nate, "There's a lot to go over before your trip next week. We should go somewhere quieter to talk. Espera, you too."

"Think you can keep everyone under control?" Nate asks Brad, not waiting for a response before he grabs a few files from his desk and follows Patterson out. He knows Brad can handle it.

*

Nate's not wrong. They've been squirreled away for a couple hours, discussing plans and talking points, finalizing Nate's platform and schedule, and Nate half-expected Trombley to have lit the place on fire by now, but no. Everyone's working, and it looks like Brad's taken over.

"I got this, okay?" Ray is saying, trying to take his BlackBerry back from Brad. Brad's not budging.

"If you let me _help_ you—"

"Dude! Are you a board-certified publicist? Yeah, I didn't think so." Brad's grip loosens in confusion, and Ray uses the opportunity to get his phone.

Brad shakes his head. "Sometimes I think you're too stupid to live."

"Something wrong?" Nate asks. Ray doesn't work well when he's pissed off.

"He's just doing it wrong, sir."

"I assure you, Ray has the necessary skills for the campaign." Nate smiles. "Despite what you might think."

"See?" Ray says. "I fucking told you so. I don't know how you put up with him, Nate."

"Ray," Nate says, a warning. Ray's not allowed to talk about him and Brad when they're at work, and Brad hates any discussion, period, which is probably because Ray's asked them questions like _Does Nate tie you up?_ and _Brad totally calls you 'sir' when you're fucking him, doesn't he? Unless he doesn't_ let _you fuck him_. After that, Brad had a _word_ with Ray.

> Ray knows about Brad and Nate—he walked in on Nate sucking Brad's cock the night Nate got elected to the Senate. Nate had hurriedly pulled away, leaving Brad just standing there with his face flushed and pants down around his ankles.
> 
> "'S cool, dude," Ray said, eyes flicking down towards Brad's crotch.
> 
> "Um, Ray." Nate cleared his throat, because no matter how cool Ray was with them doing it, he definitely didn't want Ray going after Brad. Not that Ray liked guys, as far as Nate knew, but he wouldn't be surprised if Brad was an exception.
> 
> "No big deal. You guys are homoerotic together. That's what Marines are; there's never any pussy, just guns and other..." he stopped talking, looking like he'd just had an epiphany. "Holy shit, did the Marines actually turn—"
> 
> "Person, if you don't shut your mouth right now, I'll NJP your ass," Brad threatened, having regained his cool.
> 
> "Yeah, like you can do that to a civilian" Ray said, as if Brad wasn't a threat to him whatsoever. "I'll keep you guys on the DL, as long as Sergeant Colbert here doesn't get his panties in a twist about me seeing his dick in a non-shitting, non-combat jack situation."
> 
> "That's Gunnery Sergeant to you," Nate said, voice dropping into LT mode. It happened mostly in bed or when he needed to make Ray pay attention.
> 
> Ray smiled. For a second, it looked like he was going to say something, but didn't. Instead, he just walked out, closing the door behind him. Probably going to go and hit on one of Brad's sisters—chances are he'll get a drink thrown in his face or something, Nate thought.
> 
> Nate's somewhat confident in Ray's ability to keep a secret, but since it's him, there's no harm in taking extra precautions. He's pretty sure Mike knows (if he doesn't, he's not as smart as Nate gave him credit for), but he'd go to the grave with it, and he hadn't let on anything.

*

He spends most of the weekend in bed with Brad, ignoring the elephants in the room—the campaign, their future—though Nate does have to go back into the office for a bit. When he gets back, Brad's sprawled out on the couch, reading a magazine.

"You're not married," Brad says, sitting up.

"I'm shocked you needed a magazine to tell you that, Brad," Nate replies, bald-faced. "Maybe your status as a Recon Marine should be examined more closely."

Brad shoots him a look. "According to _Time_ , it's a problem. Voters want family values and all that shit. Look at the goddamn First Family now. People are going to wonder; maybe you should just admit it."

"The Republican Party would have a fit, Brad. That's not really an option right now," Nate says. "Maybe if I get elected, in a couple of years, I can. But just...don't ask me to. Not yet."

"And what if you win?" Brad prompts. "What then? I'll keep flying out, being your booty call?"

"You know that's not what you are to me." Nate sits down next to him; they're touching at the shoulders, thighs, knees, but Brad doesn't turn to face him.

"That's what it seems like. We never go out at night unless we've got Ray or Walt or someone else with us, which, under no circumstances, qualifies as a date. I fly in and out early or late, and you don't meet me at the airport. All due respect, sir, the Corps is more accepting of us than your colleagues are. And the Corps doesn't even _know_."

"I'm sick of this, too," he admits. "Maybe we've both been a little closed-minded about this. We've been doing this for years, and Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been repealed for five of them. I'm not saying we should broadcast it or anything, but it'd hardly be suspicious if you came on the campaign with us."

"Do you know how much I've given up for you?" Brad asks. Unlike Nate, he rarely yells when he's angry, just shuts down to the bare minimum, voice gone cold and quiet with controlled emotions. "I'm always the one making time to see you. I'm the one changing my schedule and using my weekends to fly out and see you."

"Come work for me," Nate suggests. "You'd be a great Chief of Staff." He's being completely sincere, but Brad scoffs.

"I can't," he says. "I can't just quit my job on some whim because you tell me to. What if you lose, Nate? What am I supposed to do then?" Nate doesn't have an answer, and Brad knows, so he just keeps going. "You know as well as anybody—you leave the Corps, you don't go back."

"Don't you want a life after the Corps?" Nate asks. "Don't you want something more for yourself?" 

"Even if I did, what's out there for me? Not all of us went to some hippie-shit Ivy League school. Fuck, not all of us went to _college_. You tell me: grunt jobs aside, what could I get hired for?"

"Open up your own bike dealership." The thought's probably crossed Brad's head once or twice.

Brad shakes his head. "Not the point. I like my job. Most days."

Nate puts his hand on Brad's face, turns it so Brad's looking right at him. "Then what is?"

"What if you win the whole thing? You'd have Secret Service on your ass all the fucking time, and there's no hiding anything. From anyone."

"We'll figure it out," Nate says. "We always do."

"Just like in Iraq." Brad laughs self-deprecatingly. "Make shit up as we go along. Excellent plan. Well, glad we got that worked out," he says.

"Brad," Nate says, a plea. He's not exactly sure for what, but Brad nods.

Not surprisingly, fighting doesn't keep them from sex; before long, Nate's on his back, Brad stripping him down to his undershirt, touching as much skin as he can. He's not gentle—Nate will have bruises tomorrow—and the couch isn't really big enough for both of them, but it's something, and it's better than Brad going to some bar and staying out all night. Nate helps Brad shuck his clothes, everything puddling on the floor as they kiss, hard and brutal. There's a sharp burst of blood across his tongue, warm and coppery, and he's not sure if it's from his lips or Brad's.

He gets the wind knocked out of him when Brad pushes him back, adjusting so he's on top of Nate, all of his weight bearing down. They don't normally do it like this, but Brad must be feeling the need to reassert himself as alpha male or something, but Nate can handle it provided he's not underneath Brad for too long, so he goes with it.

"No biting," Nate reminds him, too late after Brad's already sunk his teeth into Nate's neck.

"I thought—"

"Press conference on Monday," Nate says. "The makeup girls talk. I can't..."

"I know." Brad moves down the bed, sucking a mark onto Nate's thigh. He jerks Nate off fast and rough, not stopping when Nate whimpers a little because Brad's grip has gone too tight around him. There's no finesse, just the insistent movement of his hand, and so much friction that it takes Nate an embarrassingly short amount of time to come.

Brad barely waits for Nate to finish before he's scooting up the couch, rubbing himself off against Nate's thigh and stealing what's left of Nate's breath with a kiss he grunts into when he spills over. He trails his fingers through the mess, cutting a path on Nate's skin.

"Should get cleaned up and go to bed," Brad says, but he stays on the couch for a few more minutes; Nate's slumped against him, though Brad could easily get up and let Nate fall back against the cushions.

*

When Nate wakes up the next morning, the bed's cold, and Brad's bag is gone. He left early—zero dark hundred early—and as usual, Nate doesn't remember Brad waking him for their goodbye.

He goes to the mirror to assess the damage. Sure enough, there are purple bruises blooming over his skin, but those are easily hidden, and the mark on his neck isn't as bad as he thought it would be. His lip has some dried blood on it, which Nate wipes away, only to find that it's swollen, too. He curses, and pads into the kitchen, hoping ice will still help after the fact.

There's a muffin and a bottle of orange juice on the kitchen counter; a note that says _Eat. Can't have you passing out on television_. Nate smiles—it's Brad's way of saying good luck. Today will go well, he thinks, wincing a little as he presses the ice pack to his mouth.

*

He gets to City Hall earlier than he needs to, reviewing everything in his head before he has to get made up, which Ray will never let him live down. No one says anything to Nate about his neck, and before long, he's getting dressed and into position, the crowd buzzing quietly as they wait for the conference to start.

For a Republican, Nate's less conservative than one might think. His platform's fairly liberal (socially, at least); unlike Milton, he's not making a cursory effort to push DADT through again. It probably won't pass, given that when it was repealed, neither the military nor the world went to hell, despite some peoples' predictions. He knows he's a tough sell—a Republican who might be better off as an Independent or a conservative Democrat—but he just wants to do what he can for the country, no matter what party he's in.

His speech goes well, for the most part; he doesn't think anyone notices the flub he has halfway through. "I'll now take any questions," he says, hoping no one asks anything too outrageous. Of course, everyone starts talking at once.

"Senator Fick, how do you feel about Governor Palin's ambitious bid for the presidency?"

Nate smirks inwardly, keeping his face neutral by force of habit. "Governor Palin is a remarkable woman, and I wish her only the best." He should've seen that one coming, someone trying to throw him off his game by asking about his opponent. Nate's not rattled that easily.

"If elected, would you push to reverse President Obama's repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell?" someone else asks.

That's a question Nate knew was coming, and he's prepared. "I believe President Obama made the right choice. We're not currently engaged in war, so while we won't know the full effect until we deploy a significant number of troops, there's no reason to reinstitute a policy that only hurt the brave men and women who work so hard to defend our country. I led some of the first Marines into Afghanistan in 2001, as well as the second platoon of Bravo Company of the First Reconnaissance Battalion during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, and the sexuality of our fellow Marines was the last thing any of us were thinking about. There have been no major problems and very little backlash from any of the branches of the military. I am assured of this."

"What do you plan to do about the country's financial situation, Senator?"

"We're all glad that the economy's recovered," Nate says, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder and reaffirm his decision with Mike—a habit that reappears when he's in a little over his head. "But we need to cut the deficit. Federal spending has gotten out of control, so more funding cuts for NASA may be in order, as well as a salary cap for some government employees. We're out of the woods, but we need to get back on our feet."

"Have you considered choosing one of your opponents as your running mate, should you win the primary?" The kid asking the question barely looks like he's graduated high school, but Nate remembers when people looked at _him_ like that.

"At this point, nothing is out of the question; however, Governor Palin and Senator Milton have very different ideas than I do, so it may not be in our bests interests to work so closely together."

"Is there a reason you aren't married yet, Senator? And do you expect to date while in office?" The question comes from someone in the back, hidden by all the other reporters; they probably chose that spot on purpose. Nate can feel his cheeks going red, his ears. It was a completely inappropriate thing to ask.

He sputters a little, adjusts his collar, and says, "No comment. Next question, please." Luckily, it's just about healthcare, so he's able to calm down, and the rest of the conference goes off without a hitch.

*

"Man, you gotta be prepared," Ray says afterwards. "Tell them you're going to be bringing a different piece of ass to the White House every night!"

"Yes, Ray, that'll get me elected for sure."

"Just doing my part." Ray grins. "We can prescreen questions next time, if you want."

"That won't be necessary," he says.

*

Everyone's sitting down for a late lunch when Nate and Ray get back; Nate's spot at the head of the table looks prepped for their meeting. "Gentlemen," he says, ducking his head in a curt nod. "How was I?"

"Good," Walt says, pretending the question about Nate's personal life wasn't asked. "Excellent answer to the question about the country's low standardized test scores."

"Should've told them you're already off the market. Got a wife and kids," Lilley adds, grinning.

"That is why I'm running," Nate agrees. "Just trying to keep the world safe for the children." Then the other half of Lilley's comment hits him. "And remind me who my wife is?"

"The Iceman, brah." There's a collective laugh, and Christeson nudges Stafford. Nate does his best to keep from saying something that he'll regret later.

"As long as _he's_ the mom," Nate jokes, then shifts back into business mode. "Walt, what've you got for me?"

Walt glances down at his notes. "We're doing well here—about 65% for the state would vote for you if the election was today, though we could stand to gain some ground in Durham and Guilford. New England's shit; same with California—"

"Fucking hippie liberal commies," Ray interrupts, shrinking back when Walt glares at him.

"The Midwest isn't too bad, but we'll have to fight for it in November, and...it looks like we're tied with him in the south."

"Good, Walt. We won't win Arkansas, but I'd say we have a decent shot at the rest of the southeast. The West Coast will either be a wash or a landslide. Lilley?"

"Almost done with the new commercial. I should have it finished by tomorrow."

"Great. Email me a copy when you get a chance." Nate ticks off a box on the mental list he's keeping. "Reporter?"

"Working on a couple speeches for your trip next week."

"Perfect. That leads me to my next point: my trip next week. We fly to Chicago via O'Hare, do some photo ops and a town hall meeting. The Obamas have invited us for dinner, so we'll fly out the next morning. It's basically lather, rinse, and repeat all the way to Oregon. Ray, Espera, Stafford and Christeson—you'll be coming with me; the rest of you will stay and hold down the fort. I know you can do it, Garza. You and Lilley will be in charge. Riley, I'm counting on you to make sure there's no trouble." She smiles at that, and Nate returns it before continuing. "If no one has anything else to say," he pauses, in case anyone does. Nothing. "Meeting adjourned." Everyone disperses, dropping trash in the can on the way out, and Nate's thankful for the quiet that remains. The only time he has to himself is when he's at home, and even then, he doesn't get to relax, so he steals little moments when he can, just to close his eyes and breathe. He doesn't think, letting his overworked brain take a break.

There's a knock on the door, and Nate rubs his eyes. "Come in." So much for a few minutes of peace.

"Nate?" Libby asks, and she seems genuinely sorry for bothering him. "There's a guy who says someone named Godfather's here to see you, but there's no one with him, um..." she trails off, confused and probably a little intimidated. Godfather has a tendency to do that to unassuming civilians.

"Sorry," he says. "Don't worry about it. I'll deal with him." Nate hasn't asked for his advice in a long time, but that hasn't stopped Godfather from offering it frequently. He reluctantly goes out front to meet Godfather before too much havoc is wreaked.

"Dealing with him" consists of listening to (what seems like) an endless bullshit moto ooh-rah speech. Nate nods when it seems appropriate, only half-paying attention. He lets his mind wander, but not to thoughts of Brad; getting turned on in front of Godfather would be the worst possible result in this situation. Nate's mention of all the work he has to do doesn't stop Godfather from pressing ahead, rambling on about glory or some shit.

Just when Nate thinks it's over, Godfather says something about them getting a drink in some stuffy bar nearby. Nate goes along with it, because a. he's not getting a say in the matter, and b. he really needs a drink after Godfather's talk. What Godfather failed to mention is that McGraw and Schwetje will be arriving just moments after Nate does, which makes this just about the worst reunion ever. Nate downs the scotch Godfather orders for him, coughing a little when it burns the back of his throat.

It turns out that his former captain and fellow platoon commander are both "in town for the day." _Right_. Nate suspects at least one of them is looking for a cabinet position, but his administration is _not_ going to be a clusterfuck. The scotch doesn't do anything to dull the tension between him and Schwetje, and McGraw won't shut up about...something. Nate excuses himself as soon as he can, which isn't nearly soon enough, and makes a beeline for his car.

*

There's a girl leaning against the door of Nate's apartment building and smoking a cigarette; she doesn't move when he reaches for the handle, but stubs out her cigarette. Judging by the bike next to her and the thick manila envelope she's holding, she's a courier. "You're Nate Fick?" she asks, probably just a formality. She looks smart, like she watches the news and cares about politics.

"Yes?" He's not expecting anything, though it's possible whatever's inside the envelope is from Brad.

"Sign here." She hands him a clipboard with a pen attached, trades him for the envelope, and bikes away.

He waits until he gets into his apartment to open it; if it's from Brad, it's probably not something Nate wants his neighbors to see. He sets down his files, grabs a soda from the fridge, and pinches the metal clasp open to release the contents.

It's not from Brad. At least, Nate doesn't _think_ it is, because inside, there are all these photos of him and Brad. Most of the shots are professional—probably taken with a long-range lens, since apparently neither of them noticed the camera. Clearly, Nate's recon skills have gone to hell since he left the Corps, but Brad has no excuse. There are photos of him and Brad running, their bodies just a little too close together. In another, they're walking together, legs in stride, and Nate's laughing at something Brad's saying.

Some of the photos were taken in California, too. Brad and Nate at the beach, Brad's surfboard under his arm—it has to be California, since Brad thinks surfing in the Atlantic is for pussies; a grainy surveillance camera cap of them at a convenience store, Brad handing over his credit card for both of their purchases, and their goodbye at LAX airport. Brad's second deployment.

In court, the pictures would only be circumstantial evidence of their relationship—their _sexual_ relationship—but it could really hurt Nate's campaign if they were released along with a statement about him and Brad. They're not doing anything they shouldn't be, though considering someone fucking _stalked_ him to get these shots, it's not that unlikely. Of course, he's not finished flipping through the stack, and...yep. There it is. Someone probably took it from the roof of the building across from Nate's. Brad's got Nate pressed up against the wall, fists clenched in Nate's shirt, and his face isn't visible, but it's unmistakably him. The next one is worse: Brad's naked from the waist up, his features visible as he mouths at Nate's jaw.

Fuck. Fuckfuck _fuck_. Nate downs the rest of his Coke in one swallow, and calls Ray, because Ray will know what to do. It rings, and rings, and Nate thinks it's going to voicemail when Ray picks up.

"Hello?"

"Walt, is that you?" Nate asks. Fuck, he hopes Ray isn't in the hospital for doing something stupid, like that one time he iced his hands until they went numb and then punched the walls. Repeatedly. "Is Ray okay?" 

"Uh, yes, sir. He's fine."

That's a relief, at least. "You know I'm just Nate now, right?" he asks. It must be the hundredth time he's told Walt as such.

"Yes, s—Nate. I'll get Ray for you." There's some shuffling, and in the background, Ray's cursing.

"Nate, is this important? Because I'm kind of in the middle of something," Ray says, voice sounding a little strained.

"Yes, Ray, it actually is. Judging by the photos I received of Brad and myself, someone has very valuable intel that could be used against us."

"You mean like a sex tape?"

" _No_ , Ray, just photos. But they could really hurt the campaign if they got out."

"Just relax, okay?" Ray says. "Whoever's doing is only trying to psych you out."

"It's fucking working!" Nate snaps. "Who do you think it is?"

Ray heaves this big, put-upon sigh. "Aren't you supposed to be the smart one here? It's obviously Milton. Palin's, like, more retarded than those rednecks in Virginia, and—ow, Walt, that fucking _hurts_ , motherfucker! Didn't you ever tell your sister not to use her teeth? I mean, I guess it doesn't matter if she didn't have any, but..."

" _Ray_ ," Nate says. He doesn't need this shit, and especially not now. "Get this taken care of, okay?"

"Roger that," he confirms. "ASAP. Like, first thing tomorrow. I'll even bring Rudy with me for firepower."

"Jesus fuck, Ray, you don't need to go to Arkansas. It'll take you over twelve hours. Call him up or something. Skype him if you have to."

"And if that doesn't work?" Ray asks.

" _Then_ you can go to Arkansas."

*

First thing at work the next day, Nate pulls Ray into one of the unoccupied rooms. "You get it taken care of?"

He doesn't meet Nate's eyes when he answers, "Not exactly."

"Not exactly? What the fuck do you mean, 'not exactly'?" If Ray can't unfuck this, Nate's in deeper than he thought.

"Well, Milton told me to tell you to shove it up your ass. He doesn't have any more photos, so I'm pretty sure he won't release them to the press yet. He's using them as leverage, sir; we need to find his weak spot."

"What we need to do is keep those photos out of the press." Nate pauses for a minute to think. Lilley doesn't know about him and Brad, but he's sort of a tech genius. "Have Lilley find out everything he can about the pictures and make sure they haven't been leaked anywhere already."

"I'm on it," Ray says, already practically halfway out the door.

"And Ray? _Discreetly_ ," Nate adds. He wants to think Milton is too big of a pussy to actually do anything with the upper hand he's got, but it's better to be safe than end up with his and Brad's relationship smeared all over the papers. Between Brad's surprise visit and this, Nate feels like he hasn't been productive in days. The primaries are about a month away, and he needs to be at the top of his game, so he squirrels away in most isolated room possible, doing his best to go over his talking points while ignoring Ray's incessant chattering. It works, but only barely, and by noon, his mind is drifting again.

He goes for a quick walk to clear his head, but on the way he looks around more than usual, doing half-hearted recon on someone who managed to slip unnoticed past Brad, so of course Nate doesn't notice anything suspicious. Whoever Milton hired to follow Nate is a fucking ghost.

He ends up having lunch at a nearby restaurant. Nate taps out emails and notes on his iPhone between bites; midway through his meal, his phone alarm buzzes, reminding him he's got a flight to New York City in a couple hours, an appearance on _The Tonight Show With Tina Fey_ later. Since he's flying back to Charlotte tomorrow, Ray's the only one going with him. Packing completely slipped his mind, so he texts Emily, his assistant, to see if she can, and he gets a quick reply that Ray will bring his bag to the airport.

Nate pays for his meal, giving the overworked-looking waiter a generous tip. He doesn't feel like going back to the office, and he's got access to all his work through his phone, so he calls a cab to take him to the airport. He likes to give himself extra time, and after checking in (not without a few odd looks for arriving empty-handed), he buys a paper, a coffee, a Snickers. When the cashier asks, "Will that be all?", he picks up the _Time_ from the rack next to him. He should probably read up on what they're saying about him.

Ray doesn't arrive until an hour before they're due to leave, which means Nate spends an hour and a half fidgeting in the uncomfortable chair in the terminal, worried that Ray won't get there in time. "Take a fucking Xanax, man," he says when he sees Nate, promptly getting dirty looks from the parents of a little girl a few seats away. Nate gives them an apologetic smile, and whacks Ray on the shoulder.

He sighs. It's going to be a long ninety minutes.

*

The interview goes well, though he wasn't expecting a challenge. Tina's polite and charming, knows the right questions to ask and when to crack a joke. The audience is receptive (for New York, at least, and for a Republican presidential candidate), and Nate wishes all publicity could be this easy.

He's staying in the presidential suite of the Times Square Mariott (Ray's doing), and when he slides his key card into the door, he wishes he was staying more than one night. The living room's sharp and modern, all clean lines and neutral colors. It's fucking immaculate, too; all the reflective surfaces have been buffed to a high shine. The couch looks perfect for fucking on, though the coffee table in front of it might cause some problems. On it is a fruit basket, and Nate smiles. His mom probably sent it, or maybe Mrs. Colbert.

A card is tucked against one of the apples, bland grey surrounded by a swath of bright colors. He expects neat cursive on the paper, but doesn't find it. Glued to the card is a printed screencap of an email addressed to executive-editor@nytimes.com, with attachments labeled 'colbertandfick1' and 'colbertfickevidence', and scrawled where the message would be is _I can press send_. He's royally fucked now—he's met Louise Welsh, the editor, and she's smart, but she's also a cold-hearted, cutthroat bitch in charge who wouldn't think twice about publishing the photos if she got her hands on them. Ray's good, but Nate's not sure even he can clean this mess up.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:27 AM  
Subject: Urgent

Milton sent me some pictures. He's had someone following us for I don't know how long. In California, too. He might release them to the press, or not. He won't be reasoned with, and I can't... I just thought you should know.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Ray Person  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:31 AM  
Subject: Problem

Got a fucking fruit basket with a threatening note. Milton. This is serious, Ray. He's not backing down.

From: Ray Person  
To: Nate Fick:  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:35 AM  
Subject: Re: Problem

I'll see what I can do. You could probably clear this shit up by talking to Mattis, though. He's got, like, supreme power.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Ray Person  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:36 AM  
Subject: Re: Problem

No.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Evan Wright  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:40 AM  
Subject: A favor

If you haven't already, put Brad and me on your Google Alerts.

From: Evan Wright  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:42 AM  
Subject: Re: A favor

Any particular reason?

From: Nate Fick  
To: Evan Wright  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:45 AM  
Subject: Re: A favor

You know why.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 9:47 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

Funny, I wasn't aware my recon skills needed improving.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:49 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

This is serious, Brad. I'm...I'm considering dropping out if he releases the photos.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 9:50 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

You're not a quitter.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:51 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

I left the Corps.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 9:55 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

This is your dream, Nate. This is what you've spent the last eight years working for. So some idiot who probably can't find his brain or his balls with a Blue Force Tracker has pictures of us that he may or may not show to the press. It's not like you're sleeping with a whore or one of your staff. You're not dropping out. I won't let you.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 12:57 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

You won't _let_ me? Funny, I wasn't aware you had superiority over me. And don't I recall you saying something about your career being on the line?

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 9:59 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

I could try to get this taken care of. Pull a few strings, make a couple phone calls. Just say the word. Sixta's an idiot, but he won't fire me. He knows I'm too good.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 1:01 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

You can't fight my battles for me, Brad, just because I used to be your CO. It doesn't work like that. Don't be so sure about Sixta; he's not as predictable as you think he is.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 10:03 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

Yes, sir.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 1:05 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

It's not like that. Don't make it about that. You're such an alpha male sometimes.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 10:08 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I can assure you my feelings are not a factor.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 1:09 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

I am assured of this.

From: Nate Fick  
To: Brad Colbert  
Date: Wed, July 13, 2016 at 1:11 AM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

Please don't get yourself involved. I know you want to, but Milton's a stubborn motherfucker, and he'll only take you trying to fix it as proof.

From: Brad Colbert  
To: Nate Fick  
Date: Tue, July 12, 2016 at 10:12 PM  
Subject: Re: Urgent

Solid copy.

*

In Nate's dreams, his phone is ringing, and it won't stop. _Liar,_ he hears when he answers. _Coward. Fag._ He wakes with a start, cold sweat sheened on his body and lungs working overtime, reminding him that dreams aren't reality. He showers, soap and anxiety swirling down the drain, but he can't calm down enough to get back to sleep, so he spends the night in darkness, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

*

Nate flies back to Charlotte, spends a day and a half doing prep for his trip, and sets out for the final push before the primaries. He flies to Chicago and Kansas City and Dallas; Salt Lake City and L.A. and, finally, Oregon. He shakes hands and kisses babies. He talks until his throat is sore, and then he talks some more. He goes on _Jimmy Kimmel Live!_ and _Real Time With Bill Maher_ , does short interviews for local news stations, and "drops in" on some of L.A.'s most disadvantaged schools.

He works harder than he has since Harvard and does his best not to think about Milton. About the threats. About how Brad might try to get the problem resolved (even though he promised not to) and end up screwing himself over. It doesn't work; he can't help but worry. Finally, he caves and calls Milton, hoping it'll do something to smooth the situation over.

"Fick speaking," he says when someone answers. There's a minute or two of Musak, and then a confident voice answers _Milton_. "What do you want?" Nate asks.

Nate can practically hear the smile on Milton's face when he gets a response. "I knew you'd come around eventually, Fick," Milton says, victory seeping into his voice. "Your Gunnery Sergeant doesn't scare me, but I'm glad you found the balls to handle this yourself, like a real man."

He drops his head into his hands; he can't believe Brad actually went through with it. But... "My...Gunnery Sergeant," he says. "You're aware I'm no longer in the Marine Corps?" His last Gunny was Mike Wynn, who's Master Gunny now, but retired from the Corps. Brad got another promotion to First Sergeant, but Nate's not going to say so and risk giving Milton some sort of in.

"I'm aware, yes. I may not be a Harvard grad like you, but I can do basic research. Mike Wynn," Milton clarifies. "Smart. I'm thinking about asking him to do some consulting for me.

Nate breathes a sigh of relief. Brad getting Mike to do his dirty work for him is better than Brad doing it himself, and Mike's smart enough to laugh in Milton's face over talks of a consult. "So what do you want?" he repeats, eager to get the issue settled.

"A concession from you by the end of the week." It's to the point, and just what Nate expected. But he's not giving up that easily.

"I don't think so. There's no need to be bitter just because I'm doing better in the polls than you are," Nate says. He's ahead by a bit, but not enough to be cocky about it. "How about we compromise? You agree not to show those photos to the press, and I—"

"Fat chance, Fick," Milton growls, ending their conversation with an abrupt _click_.

Motherfucking _shit_ , Nate thinks. He tried being reasonable; he's sure Wynn was a little harsher. Nate's not sure what else he can do. Maybe going to Mattis is the only solution, even if he'll be pissed as all hell that Nate's bothering him about something so "petty."

Tomorrow, Nate will call Brad and bitch him out for going behind Nate's back, but for now, but for now, his eyelids are heavy and his mind tired, so he sleeps. He'll figure out what to do about Milton when he's awake.

*

In the morning, Nate wakes to Brad sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at him. It'd be unnerving if he weren't a Recon Marine, if he wasn't _Brad_. "Hey," he says, voice rough with sleep, and he clears his throat before continuing. "When did you get in?"

"Early," Brad answers. He doesn't say _I wanted to surprise you_ ; he doesn't need to. Instead, he crawls up the bed and kisses Nate, ignoring Nate's sleep-sour breath and stubble. He tastes like toothpaste and coffee.

"How long are you staying?" Nate asks, hoping it's more than a day or two.

"As long as you want me to," Brad says, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. "We'll figure this out."

Nate knows exactly what he means.


End file.
